


one short sleep past

by llassah



Series: slave to fate, kings, chance and desperate men [4]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Bechdel Test, F/F, F/M, McCall Pack, POV Lydia Martin, Pack Building, Recovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:46:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/llassah/pseuds/llassah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>There’s a scar over Allison’s heart. It’s triangular. In certain lights it seems to glint. Lydia presses her lips to it, runs her tongue along it. There’s no other scar. No sign of the killing blow, just the resurrection. Lydia smiles against her skin.</em>
</p><p>In bedrooms, hallways and classrooms, after the war.</p>
            </blockquote>





	one short sleep past

There’s a scar over Allison’s heart. It’s triangular. In certain lights it seems to glint. Lydia presses her lips to it, runs her tongue along it. There’s no other scar. No sign of the killing blow, just the resurrection. Lydia smiles against her skin. “You’re being smug again,” Allison says, a laugh running through her voice. Lydia hums, presses a kiss to it one last time.

“You like me being smug,” she says, then brushes her thumb over Allison’s nipple, just to hear her gasp, crawls down the bed and spreads Allison’s legs, puts her face to the damp curls covering her cunt, spreads her lips and licks inside her until all she can taste is the sweet salt taste of her, and she comes sobbing, her fingers tangled in Lydia’s hair, legs twitching and shaking and she’s alive, so alive.

Allison lazily fingerfucks her, curls three fingers around towards her pelvic bone, circles her clit slowly until it feels like she’s slowly cresting, like her orgasm is just running through her, not so much a clench then an explosion as a gentle expansion, and she comes like waves lapping on the shore. She kisses Allison as she comes, lets her taste her own cunt on her lips.

They don’t bother pulling the covers over themselves, just lie together and bask, thighs sticky. “I can’t believe we have homework,” Allison sighs eventually. “It feels so…feels like we went to Narnia. And we’re all Susan.”

“Susan got to wear lipstick and stockings,” Lydia says, stroking the arrow scar. Her fingers feel drawn to it. “And she was an amazing shot. She was the best one of them all. She got to live. She survived.”

*

“You’re dealing with forc—”

“Nope.” She cuts him off. “Specifics, or nothing. Your choice.”

He raises an eyebrow, folds his arms.

“I have a date,” she says, turns and leaves. Allison meets her outside. She’s wearing a white dress. The sun sends red streaks shining through her hair, and she looks worried. “Deaton doesn’t know anything. Anything. I’d have burnt this whole place to ashes for you,” she tells her. “Also, that lipstick looks amazing on you.”

They walk off holding hands, drink black coffee on a park bench, and kiss until all their lipstick’s smeared off.

*

“How did you know it would work?” she asks Stiles. Stiles shrugs. He looks unnervingly small, propped up on his bed. His hair’s a birdsnest, eyes shadowed. His hands are pale on the comforter, fingers twitching with small, jerky movements.

“I know you. You can do anything,” he says like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Hey, progress update—I sneezed and didn’t get a nosebleed!” and he does the saddest approximation of jazz hands she has ever seen. “You—you would have done anything. Scott would have done the same for—if I’d—I wonder, sometimes, if it would have been better if I’d just died. Simpler.”

“Define better,” she says, goes back to painting his toenails blue. “You should shave these,” she tells him, plucking at a particularly long hair on his big toe.

“I’m having a crisis here, Lydia,” he whines.

“It’s no excuse for poor grooming. Look at Derek.”

“He has a beard! That’s not—”

“He trims. Stay on topic, Stiles,” she chides, then watches, sadness gripping her a little as he tries to remember what the topic was.

“Love,” Stiles says at last. “Love and death. They’re…they’re threads, and they’ll run through your life. And they’re strong, you’re strong. And she’s your sister, and you love her.”

He falls asleep as she paints a tiny crescent moon on his little toenail. Scott hovers in the doorway as she puts the lids back on her nail varnishes. He’s looking at Stiles with that deep, sad worry in his eyes, but when he sees she’s watching him, he smiles at her. “That looks amazing,” he says quietly. “Can you do my fingernails that way some time?”

He pads over, sits in the chair next to Stiles’s bed. Stiles frowns, then settles, shifting a little so he’s facing Scott. He’s still asleep, but one hand is outstretched, empty. It looks like a plea. Scott twines their fingers together, kisses his hand. “Sure,” she says, walks around the bed and puts her hand on Scott’s shoulder. He leans towards her, and she lets him rest his head on her stomach, wrap one arm around her. A dull ache deep in the pit of her belly eases, and she looks down to see Scott’s veins turn black. “You don’t have to do that. It’s—it’s natural,” she says, feels a flash of arousal at the thought of Scott smelling the blood, of knowing, feels this hot, forbidden thrill.

Scott just leans against her. “You’re in pain. It’s kind of instinct now,” he says. She strokes his hair and wonders if he’ll ever stop giving. If anyone’s going to watch over him as he sleeps.

*

“What is it?”

She looks at the canvas, hasn’t really been paying attention. “It’s a storm,” she says, looks at the way the black oil paint has collected in some areas, giving the canvas this ridged appearance, deeper patches of shadow.

“This is from that night. With Allison. What we did,” Kira says, perching on a table. “That painting’s kind of terrifying.”

“I was thinking of giving it to Derek; I figured the loft could use some brightening up,” she says, and Kira’s laugh is loud, startled, breaking the hush of the art room. They’re quiet, then. Kira takes her camera out, lies back on the desk she’s perched on and takes a few pictures of the ceilings and corners of the room. She develops the photographs herself, keeps them in a box under her bed. She doesn’t show anyone the finished result, not even Scott. They work quietly. Kira asks if she can take a picture of Lydia’s hands and she says yes, keeps working as the shutter goes off rhythmically, as Kira moves around the room, flitting from image to image. She settles back on the desk after a few minutes.

“We should do something about Derek. And Scott. And Isaac. And Stiles,” Kira says, chewing on the end of her braid.

Lydia hums, putting more white paint on the lightning. “What did you have in mind?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the canvas.

“I hadn’t really thought much beyond that. I’m more impulsive than anything, you know, plans aren’t quite my strong suit.”

Lydia doesn’t mention Noshiko. She’s pretty proud of that. “Well, at least you know your limitations,” she says brightly, turns around wiping her hands on her smock.

*

School feels weird. They sit together at lunch, and it feels like they’re on an island. People talk about them. Everyone talks about them. She keeps her head high as she walks over. High School. She can be queen of something else one day. Kira’s sketching a blade, talking about the balance points and where they’d fall. She kisses Allison on the lips, a brief hello, then looks down at the drawing, the curved sweep of the sword. “This looks good,” Allison says. “You can come talk to my dad, he knows some people who make weapons if you wanted to study this. Uh…actually, scratch that,” she scrunches her nose up. “They might kill you a little bit.”

Kira nods, says “no, that’s fine. Man, it’s so weird. I had a freak out at Derek when I heard about hunters and he said I’d be really hard to kill and then bought me two fudge sundaes.”

“And that…made you feel better?” Isaac asks as he wanders over, phone in hand.

“I like fudge sundaes,” Kira says, beaming up at him.

“O _kay_ ,” he mutters, leans against the wall, staring at Allison. He’s still doing something with his phone.

*

Isaac doesn’t know quite what to do with Allison. It’s kind of like watching a giraffe trying to drive a car; he’s far too tall and in no way qualified. “He’s trying,” Derek says, looking a little like a proud father. Lydia sips at the herbal tea he made them both, curls her feet up under her.

“He’s terrible at it,” she whispers, and Derek grimaces, nods. “But for some reason, it’s working.”

“Universal mystery,” Derek says eventually, runs a hand through his beard. “Guys who have game without really having game. He could move to Williamsburg and write bad poetry and he’d never have to cook himself another meal again.”

Isaac doesn’t even show any sign he’s heard them. He’s too focussed on Allison and there’s something desperate about it, something incongruously tender. He kisses her on the lips, chaste, and then lopes off. Allison watches him go, doesn’t close the door until he’s out of sight. She smiling as she comes back to the couch, picks up her tea and cradles it in her hands, sits next to Lydia on the couch. “Don’t say anything,” she says, looks at Derek, who blinks, puts his hands up, and at Lydia, who doesn’t let up on the slightly judgmental expression. “Besides, this is an intervention for Scott, not for me.”

“I told you, this is instinct.”

“He has a patrol route. My dad’s seen it, the Sheriff’s seen it. Deputy Parrish has questioned him about his nighttime patrols and his dad thinks he’s an insomniac or possibly a criminal mastermind. His mom’s started asking my dad about tranq guns.”

Derek sighs, leans forward in his chair. “What do you think an Alpha needs for his pack?” he asks, hands clasped between his spread legs. Times like this, he looks ancient, eyes fathomless, and he answers his own question with a slightly twisted smile. “Safety. He needs them to be safe, and strong, especially at night when they’re vulnerable. So he’s checking up on everyone, making sure their dens are secure, and he won’t stop until he’s sure this town is safe. He’s not used to being a werewolf in peacetime. I’m a little rusty at it, too,” he says, looks down at his hands.

Lydia watches him steadily. She suspects he’s been doing meditation, something. He seems calmer, steadier. Not a time bomb, running on instincts and fear and an astounding lack of knowledge or common sense.

“At the risk of sounding like a teenage girl—no, I kind of am one—would a sleepover…I mean, if we were under one roof?” Allison says, still a little diffident when it comes to Derek. Derek raises his eyebrows, leans back in his chair. “It could work—Scott would know we were together and he could, like, sleep closest to the door or something, and—” she trails off as Derek stands abruptly, pulls something out from behind a loose brick in the wall, hands it to her.

It’s his wallet, a little covered in brickdust. “Use my card. Don’t go overboard. Stiles likes multiple pillows but make sure he brings his special one, Isaac prefers brushed cotton bedsheets and Scott secretly likes superhero ones but don’t tell him I told you. Don’t get anything synthetic, and don’t call it a sleepover, don’t let Kira call it a sleepover and watch out, she takes photographs of people sleeping. She thinks it’s cute. Now leave, before I change my mind.”

Allison grabs her hand and pulls her up. “Thanks for the tea! And the card!” Lydia calls back as she’s towed out of there. They wait until they’re in the car before they say anything. “How did you know that would work?” Lydia asks, looks down at the battered leather wallet.

“He’s kind. That’s…he tries to pretend he isn’t, and he’s incredibly awkward about it, but he cares. Plus, it’s Scott. You know how he is about Scott.”

*

Stiles laughs until he can’t quite stand up when Lydia goes to collect him, tells him their plan. “Put on your pajamas,” she says again, and helps him into them, loose sweatpants and a worn looking v-neck, stretched so it exposes his collarbones. He’s self-conscious about his scars still, about the arcs of his ribs.

“Are we gonna talk about boys?” he asks, tugs at the hem of his shirt again, fingers twisting in the fabric. She puts his washbag on the bed, picks up the pillow his eyes keep going to.

“Derek says this isn’t a sleepover,” she tells him as they go slowly down the stairs. He’s still got the nail varnish on his toes, feet pale and bare. He looks like a child, hair messy, eyes wide. He leans against the wall a few times, breathing hard but he gets to the bottom step under his own steam. The Sheriff smiles at them both from the kitchen table. He’s going over some case files with Agent McCall. They both have glasses of water in front of them.

“Be good,” the Sheriff says, comes over and hugs Stiles, kisses him on the forehead. Lydia looks down at the floor, feels a little lost, but when the Stilinskis break apart he hugs her too, and she leans into him, lets him wrap her up with warmth and strength because her own father was all words and promises and the Sheriff’s jumper’s soft and she can close her eyes for a few seconds. He’s kind, like Derek is, like Scott is. Like Allison. She isn’t kind. Stiles isn’t really either. They’re good people, but they’re not kind. He smiles at her when she takes a step back. “Enjoy your sleepover.”

“Not a sleepover apparently,” Stiles says, and they walk together to the door as the Sheriff shakes his head.

*

When they get to the loft, the only person missing is Scott. They’d bought double mattresses, joined them together as Derek watched with his arms folded then, grudgingly, helped so there’s a big sleeping area full of bedding. Stiles looks at the bed, looks at Derek and from Derek’s look of concern he smells terrified. “You’ll sleep,” Derek says, “or you can just lie down here. Either’s okay. We’re not gonna make you do anything.”

“Can we talk about boys?”

Derek rolls his eyes, steers Stiles to the couch. “Not a sleepover. Now, we’re getting crispy beef from Sing Lee’s but the Golden Rooster do better cashew chicken—”

“No, that place that does fries and that weird thing that isn’t poutine does the best cashew chicken, how are you so wrong—”

“We are not going to Old Cotton Eye’s, that place smells of dead cat and what the hell do you mean, how is Golden Rooster’s inferior—”

She leaves them to it.

*

“Stiles!” Scott yells as he runs into Derek’s loft, wearing only one shoe. “Stiles, are you okay, what—”

He stops, still shaking, runs both his hands through his hair. “I got your message, Stiles, I—” he stops again, takes a few deep breaths. Everyone looks confused except for Isaac, who’s looking down at a phone, holds it up when he sees that everyone’s watching him.

“Had to get you here,” he says with a shrug. “Too soon?”

Scott won’t stop shaking. Doesn’t stop, even when Stiles goes to him, presses their foreheads together, even when Allison comes and puts her arm around him. He hasn’t slept in weeks, not properly, and he won’t stop, won’t stop trying to protect them. He gave Isaac his apple from lunch because he said he looked hungry, spent an afternoon teaching Kira to ride his bike in case anything happened and she needed to get away fast, won’t leave Stiles to sleep alone, keeps trying and trying with his father, runs himself to the ground checking they’re safe at night and he still looks at Allison like his heart’s breaking. He’s taken the weight of all their troubles on his shoulders.

Lydia goes to the coffee table, picks up the list of dishes and the places they’re getting them from, thrusts it at Isaac. “Sort this out, and maybe I won’t eviscerate you,” she tells him sweetly, doesn’t hide a single bit of her anger. Chris Argent’s afraid of her. So is Noshiko. She’s glad. They should be.

Derek’s got his hands on Scott’s shoulders now, is talking quietly to him, thumbs rubbing his skin where his neck and shoulder join. He shifts, claws lengthening, face changing shape and Derek keeps hold of him, still talking. He shifts, too, gives this low growl, his clawed thumbs still gentle on Scott’s skin and it’s getting easier to understand, this closeness, because there are thrums of sound coming at her from all directions, a pull that comes from her heart and her gut. This is pack. Something she never knew she needed. Something that gives words to the sounds she hears all the time. She comes and joins them, makes a space for herself next to Allison, lets Stiles lean on her and watches Scott snarl back, then make a deeper growl, one that has Derek tilting his head to the side, baring his neck. She watches Scott collapse then, and helps to catch him.

*

They stay there for a week. Derek pretends to complain, but takes them out for breakfast every morning. She gets used to sharing a bed platonically, gets used to Stiles’s nightmares, the way Derek chases rabbits in his sleep. The way Allison wakes up gasping, clutching at her chest with shaking hands and won’t settle again, the way she whispers “I’m alive,” like she doesn’t believe it. Kira takes pictures of them sleeping and just smiles when Derek tells her it’s creepy. Lydia dreams of hands dragging her down, down, but she’s used to that. She isn’t used to being held close afterwards, though. She kisses Allison as Isaac watches hungrily, then watches as he sneaks closer to them, sleeps with his hand in hers, steals little touches as if he isn’t sure what he’s allowed. Scott sleeps. Scott’s taken to going to Derek’s loft straight after class finishes, makes Stiles drive them and Lydia’s given up on trying to work out what’s happening with the three of them. It’s something good.

Even when they leave, Derek keeps the mattresses piled in the corner, says something about trampolines and then spends a few minutes smiling to himself.

*

The English teacher’s new. Lydia gives her three months at first, revises her estimation to five months when she sees how she deals with three fire alarms in one lesson. She wears a trouser suit, sensible shoes. She smokes, and probably drinks whiskey and Kira’s convinced she’s a spy.

“So, now we’ve finished being disgusted by fleas, let’s move on to his religious poetry,” she says, leaning back against her desk, hands braced. “Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, and dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,” she recites, the meter tripping off her tongue. Lydia hears echoes, and smiles slowly, lifts her head. Scott looks across at her, grins, Stiles gives her the double thumbs up, leans back and almost falls out of his chair but Scott pushes it back with one foot. Allison’s hand’s over her heart, over her arrow.

“Miss Martin, what is this poem about?”

She meets her eyes and hears thunder, takes a breath. “It’s about victory,” she says, and watches as the teacher frowns. She might learn.


End file.
